It tells of a talking raven's mysterious visit to a distraught lover, tracing the man's slow descent into madness. The lover, often identified as being a student, is lamenting the loss of his love, Lenore. Sitting on a bust of Pallas, the raven seems to further instigate his distress with its constant repetition of the word "Nevermore". The poem makes use of a number of folk and classical references.

Poe claimed to have written the poem very logically and methodically, intending to create a poem that would appeal to both critical and popular tastes, as he explained in his 1846 follow-up essay "The Philosophy of Composition". The poem was inspired in part by Grip, a talking raven, in the novel Barnaby Rudgeby Charles Dickens.  Poe borrows the complex rhythm and meter of Elizabeth Barrett's poem "Lady Geraldine's Courtship", and makes use of internal rhyme as well as alliteration throughout.  The Raven was first attributed to Poe in print in the New York Evening Mirror on January 29, 1845. Its publication made Poe widely popular in his lifetime, though it did not bring him much financial success. Soon reprinted, parodied, and illustrated, critical opinion is divided as to the poem's status, though it remains one of the most famous poems ever written.

 

 


THE RAVEN

 

 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

 Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

 "'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—

                          Only this, and nothing more."

 

 Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

 Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

 From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

                          Nameless here for evermore.

 

 And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

 Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

 "'Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—

 Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

                          This it is, and nothing more."

 

 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

 "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

 That I scarce was sure I heard you "—here I opened wide the door;——

                          Darkness there and nothing more.

 

 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

 But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,

 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"

 This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—

                          Merely this, and nothing more.

 

 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

 Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.

 "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

 Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

 Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

                          'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

 

 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

 In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;

 Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;

 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

 Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

                          Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

 

 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

 "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

 Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

                         Quoth the raven "Nevermore."

 

 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

 Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

                         With such name as "Nevermore."

 

 But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

 That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

 Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

 Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—

 On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

                         Then the bird said "Nevermore."

 

 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

 "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store

 Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

 Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

 Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

                         Of "Never—nevermore."

 

 But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

                         Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

 

 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

 On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplght gloated o'er,

 But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,

                          She shall press, ah, nevermore!

 

 Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

 Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

 "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent

 thee

 Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

 Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

                          Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

 

 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

 Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

 On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

 Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"

                          Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

 

 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!

 By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

                          Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

 

 "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—

 "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

 Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

                         Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

 

 And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

 And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

                          Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Published 1845.


 

THE DIVINE RIGHT OF KINGS

 

This poem is attributed to Poe, though not fully proven. It appeared in Graham's Magazine in October 1845. The "King" of the title is Ellen King, possibly representing Frances Sargent Osgood, to whom the writer pledges his devotion. It was first identified as Poe's in an article on November 21, 1915, using the poem's signature of "P." as evidence.

 

The only king by right divine
Is Ellen King, and were she mine
I'd strive for liberty no more,
But hug the glorious chains I wore.

Her bosom is an ivory throne,
Where tyrant virtue reigns alone;
No subject vice dare interfere,
To check the power that governs here.

O! would she deign to rule my fate,
I'd worship Kings and kingly state,
And hold this maxim all life long,
The King — my King — can do no wrong.          P.


A VALENTINE

 

     For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,

         Brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,

     Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies

         Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.

     Search narrowly the lines!—they hold a treasure

         Divine—a talisman—an amulet

     That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure—

         The words—the syllables! Do not forget

     The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!

         And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

 

     Which one might not undo without a sabre,

         If one could merely comprehend the plot.

     Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering

         Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus

     Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing

         Of poets, by poets—as the name is a poet's, too.

     Its letters, although naturally lying

         Like the knight Pinto—Mendez Ferdinando—

     Still form a synonym for Truth—Cease trying!

         You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.

1846.

[To discover the names in this and the following poem read the first letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth and so on to the end.]

 

 


 

THE BELOVED PHYSICIAN

 

This poem was written around April 1847 for Mary-Louise Shew, a nurse who also inspired Poe's more famous poem, "The Bells". The poem was originally ten stanzas long, although a version with nine stanzas was supposedly prepared by Poe for publication. It was never printed during his lifetime, and it now appears to be lost. Shew was able to recall about a tenth of a poem in a letter to editor John W. Ingham in 1875; these fragments were published in 1909, and appear to be all that remains of the piece.

 

 

The pulse beats ten and intermits;
God nerve the soul that ne'er forgets
In calm or storm, by night or day,
Its steady toil, its loyalty.
[. . . ]

[. . . ]
The pulse beats ten and intermits;
God shield the soul that ne'er forgets.
[. . . ]

[. . . ]
The pulse beats ten and intermits;
God guide the soul that ne'er forgets.
[. .